


Cocoon

by holyfant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Gen, M/M, The Sign of Three, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:30:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At least shut the curtains, then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocoon

John, with the air of someone resigned to his fate, gets to his feet. “Well, at least shut the curtains, then,” he says.

 

Sherlock laughs a little, then frowns when John doesn't join in, and unsteeples his hands. “You're serious.”

 

John makes a gesture: half a shrug, half an indication at himself as if to say _does this look like a man who is kidding?_ “Who knows what tabloid hounds are posed outside with telelenses.”

 

“I didn't mean the curtains,” Sherlock says, “I meant the –” and then he interrupts himself as John's response registers fully: “What? You think there are journalists watching the flat?”

 

John turns his mouth upside down. “Dunno, but I'd rather not be featured in the Daily Mail tomorrow.” He considers for a moment, and looks down at the copy of the wedding schedule in his hand. “Though I suppose they'd have to think of a new title for me. Bachelor John Watson won't work anymore, will it?”

 

It's an odd thing to say, especially in the way he says it: thoughtful, mild, almost sad. He's been like that all evening. Sherlock looks at him. “No,” he says. “It won't.”

 

For a moment, nothing happens. John stands in front of him, waiting. There is a distant rumble of thunder outside; inside, the glow of the lamplight in the room is muted and dim. “Well?”

 

“I was joking,” Sherlock says, aware that his hands are clenching themselves around the arm rests of his chair. He relaxes his fingers; it takes a bit of effort.

 

John dismisses that with a non-committal shrug. “You're right, though. I'll look like a tit, I should practise.”

 

Sherlock almost asks: _with me?_ but doesn't; who else is there but him, if it can't be Mary?

 

“All right,” he says, and gets up. “I'll – find us a waltz, then.” John gives him a smile and steps aside to let him pass. Sherlock goes into his bedroom to get a record; his own nearly finished composition lies on the bed and draws his attention for a moment. It's more joyful than he would have thought, writing this piece for John and Mary. He's not past it, the blaming himself for saying nothing, for the absurd assumption that John would never need anyone else. There are times he thinks he will be able to bear it, this loss, but there are also others. Working on the waltz is a good substitute for ripping the wallpaper off the walls or trying to tear his hair out.

 

He selects a rendition of Shostakovich; pieces with a good pace, John will know most of them. Not too exuberant for the strange melancholy mood John is in, but not unhappy either. He stands for a moment holding the record in his hands, and reflects uneasily on what is to come. He put himself into this position; there is no one else he can blame. Was it wrong, to throw himself into the wedding like this? He thought it would be a distraction. Something he could give John, after all that he'd taken.

 

When he comes back into the living room, John has put the coffee table and the chairs aside and is busy tugging the curtains closed. For some reason it's this that makes Sherlock's gut flare with nerves; it feels intimate, the way John shuts out the city with its many eyes, its many needs. It's just them now, and when John turns around to face Sherlock his expression is soft and serious. Sherlock can only hold his look for a second before he has to drop it; it's too much like everything he has forbidden himself to think about. This half-light, the evening textured like velvet. The rain outside making quiet noises, and John making his way towards him on socked feet.

 

He busies himself with the record player to avoid having to look at John. “You are familiar with the basics, I assume?”

 

“I know it goes one-two-three,” John says, “but that about covers it. Waltzing isn't exactly the thing when you go out for a pint with the blokes, you know.”

 

“Let's start without music, then,” Sherlock says, straightening up. “That's easier.”

 

John nods his assent, and then waits, posture stiff.

 

“I'll lead, to start with," Sherlock says. "We can switch later.”

 

John huffs a laugh, but says nothing. Sherlock, because there is hardly anything else he can do, uses his right hand to take John's and brings it up to the required height, holding it carefully. He steps closer to John, nudges his left arm under John's.

 

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” Sherlock says.

 

John does. His hand is warm through Sherlock's shirt. He grumbles: “You're bloody tall,” and it shouldn't be a surprise that he's as close as he is.

 

“At least that won't be a problem with Mary,” Sherlock says. He touches his hand to John's shoulder blade. It feels like breaking a rule.

 

“True,” John agrees. “We're two well-matched midgets.”

 

Sherlock smiles a little, because he feels he should. “All right, I'll count. On the one, take a step backward with your right leg. Two is a step to the side with your left. Three is bringing your legs together.”

 

“I have no idea what that means.”

 

"You'll see."

 

John breathes a laugh, and firms up his stance. “Go ahead, maestro.”

 

Sherlock counts – one, two, three – and then guides John through his first bars of soundless waltz; they bump knees at first, John goes the wrong way a few times.

 

“One, two, three, one… John, you have to follow my lead,” Sherlock says, and stops.

 

“I am!” John protests, letting his hand fall off Sherlock's shoulder. “I'm just not a mindreader.”

 

Sherlock smiles. John has nothing of the smooth fluidity of the dancer; his compact body is tense and tight against Sherlock's hands. He can't read the signals because he's not trying to read them. He wants to be in control. “Don't look down,” Sherlock tells him, “that only makes it more complicated.”

 

“Yes, _all right_ ,” John says, almost snappish, and fixes his gaze on Sherlock's before putting his hand back on Sherlock's shoulder. “I'll just look into your eyes for a bit, then.”

 

It would be okay if John would just laugh when he says those things; he sometimes does, these days. Sherlock supposes his relationship with Mary has made John less defensive about his relationship with Sherlock: the boundaries have been redrawn and he finds himself in a more comfortable country. If he'd laugh, it would just be banter, harmless references to a mindset that John rejects. But he doesn't laugh this time. His expression is serious. Sherlock thinks that maybe he should say that waltzers traditionally don't hold eye contact, but –

 

“Are you going to count?” John asks. “Or should I?”

 

Sherlock counts. John follows him more smoothly than before; the rhythm holds, they make it through several bars without fault.

 

“Better,” John says after they've stopped, and smiles, crinkling his eyes. “I'm getting the hang of it now.”

 

Sherlock takes his hands away from John, almost glad for the excuse to drop his look. It itches, it chafes - John's eyes on him. It's too much because it will never be enough. He clears his throat. “Let's try it with the music on.” He fits the needle of the record player into the grooved surface of the recording. Waltz. no 2 fizzes into life. The sound begins as a gentle murmur and swells quickly into the familiar pattern. Violins, an oboe breaking through to the surface in a tinkle of clarity.

  


“Hear it?”

  


“Yes,” John confirms, and counts along with the rhythm to prove it.

  


They take their positions. John seems more relaxed, his arm resting more heavily on Sherlock's. Sherlock starts them off into the rhythm and John follows quite easily this time. Sherlock chances a more sweeping circular movement just as the flutes pick up the melody and the waltz breaks open into its signature movement; John doesn't falter, matches his greater strides. Sherlock's calves brush the coffee table. He can't help it: he laughs, from somewhere deep inside of him. John grips his hand more firmly, laughs too, and that's when they lose it - John misses one of the steps, and Sherlock's body runs into his.

  


“Ah, shit, sorry,” John says, but giggles then, and drops his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder for a split second; hardly for long enough for it to register before he picks it back up. He's grinning. “That was okay.”

  


“It was,” Sherlock agrees, answers John's smile.

  


“Try again?” John says. The waltz is ending, the piccolos trilling its final, triumphant notes.

  


“Perhaps you should lead,” Sherlock says. “Before you get too used to following. You'll need to lead Mary.”

  


“Aren't you too used to leading?”

  


“I'm an easy switch,” Sherlock says, almost recklessly, and it's a thrill: how John's eyebrows rise and his mouth changes into half a smile.

  


“Really,” is all he says. Then: “Where did you learn to do this?”

  


“I'm a musician,” Sherlock says, as he turns back towards the record player. “The rhythm of a waltz is second nature to me.”

  


“That doesn't mean you can dance it without practice. Can you?” Sherlock lifts the needle off, and straightens. He can see John looking at him, trying to imagine who Sherlock could have ever practised waltzing with.

  


“No,” he says. “But as you know, I'm a fast learner.” He doesn't volunteer more than that; it's worth it to see John thinking about these things. John always wants to _know:_ was there never, anyone, a woman, … a man? Did you, when did you, how is it possible that you've never felt...? Who taught you this? Did you lead, did you follow when you were taught?

  


Sherlock won't tell him, not unless he asks directly – and John won't.

  


“Without music,” he says. “So now it's: step forward with your right, step to the side with your left, and close."

  


John forms the triangular movement once. “Like that?”

  


“Yes, that's it. You need to start us off. I'll follow you. Use your hand to guide the circles like I did.”

  


John swallows. “All right, I'll give it a go,” he says.

  


John's hand on his back, the barely noticeable tremble in his other arm. If they'd step in a little closer their chests would brush and they would essentially be embracing - now, not exactly so.

  


John counts, starts them off but sets the wrong foot forward and steps on Sherlock's. Sherlock smiles but makes sure not to laugh. John doesn't grumble, but starts again. The second try is better, though they are basically shuffling in one place; Sherlock has to suppress the urge to take over and lead them wider.

  


“Bigger steps,” he says instead. John complies, leads them past the sofa, past the coffee table. It's getting a bit too dark in the flat for comfort, but Sherlock doesn't think he wants the lights lit.

  


“That's good,” he mumbles, relaxing a little into John's leading - it's clear that John feels more natural deciding where to go than to follow someone else. He's gaining confidence, strides more pronounced, circles growing as wide as they can in their living room.

  


"Music?" he asks, but doesn't quite stop; Sherlock says: “Yes,” but his feet keep following John's for another couple of bars.

  


“That feels better,” John says when they finally let go of each other. “I don't like not knowing where I'm headed.”

  


“There's a surprise,” Sherlock allows himself to say, and flashes John a smile.

  


“Guess I'm not as easy a switch as you.” There is something boyish, mischievous in how John says it; like he'd bounce on the balls of his feet, if he wasn't nearly forty years old.

  


“I could have told you that.”

  


“I don't doubt it,” John says seriously, “but it's more fun to discover it for yourself.”

  


Sherlock is aware this is another one of those conversations: the kind where, if it were other people, he'd roll his eyes at the transparency of human beings' mating habits. It's not quite as easy to know what it means when it's him and John. John used to stop it at some point; lately it's usually Sherlock who edges himself out of it.

  


“I'll set up the music.”

  


John's mouth pulls itself to the side. Disappointment at something or other. John values banter as a homosocial bonding technique, Sherlock knows – but he can't, not now... It's easier for John, these days. Not so for him.

  


The waltz begins anew. John all but pulls Sherlock into his position and holds his hand firmly. They fall into step easily; John is even humming along with the music, his feet moving confidently.

  


“Good,” Sherlock says, smiles.

  


“I'm enjoying this,” John says, and though Sherlock could tell, he appreciates John telling him. John squeezes his hand, leads him into a tighter circle.

  


“You could try dipping her,” Sherlock suggests.

  


“Can't really practise that on you, can I?” John responds. “You lanky bastard.”

  


“Maybe not,” Sherlock says. “As long as you don't go too deep, it should be fine. Twirl me.”

  


“I – sorry?”

  


“Twirl me,” Sherlock repeats, and then chuckles at John's face. “You'll have to use your left hand to go over my head – yes, like that –” He obediently ducks under John's arm, completes the circle, and comes back into position, falling back into the pattern. John's feet stutter for a moment, but then he finds the rhythm. “Good,” Sherlock says again. “You can do that anytime you want, she'll follow. It'll be easier with her than with me, she's shorter.”

  


John's grin is wide. “I just twirled Sherlock Holmes.”

  


Sherlock answers his smile. “There's an epitaph for you, if you still need one.”

  


“I hope Mycroft was kidding about the cameras.”

  


“Mycroft doesn't kid,” Sherlock says, “but he needs security clearance for that like anyone else, and there is no justifiable reason to put surveillance in my private home.” He ducks into another twirl when John's hands guide him into it. The recording has gone silent, the last notes shivering away. John keeps them going.

  


“I thought he could do whatever he wanted,” John says.

  


“He'd like you to think that.”

  


They dance on. Sherlock's hand is a little clammy in John's, John's fingers on his shoulder are grasping at his shirt. Sherlock catches sight of them in the mirror, flitting past, like ghosts.

  


“I'm getting married,” John says, and sounds a bit surprised for it.

  


“Yes, I know.”

  


John's leading falters; they stop. John doesn't immediately let go of Sherlock's hand. “Did you ever think that would happen?”

  


Sometimes, the truth is easiest. “I must admit I didn't,” Sherlock says.

  


“I didn't, either. Especially not before – before you –” he looks for words, chooses them: “– buggered off.”

  


It hurts a bit, that – but it's no more than Sherlock deserves, really. He turns away and sits himself down in the sofa. John remains standing, looking down on him. “Well,” Sherlock forces himself to say, “if my absence gave you Mary, I suppose that's one good thing it did.”

  


“Oh, fuck you,” John says, and points a finger at him. “And don't look at me like that. Yes, I am glad I met her, and that I had the courage to try with her. I probably wouldn't have done that if you'd been – around. But it...” He shakes his head. “It was still hell.”

  


“I know,” Sherlock says.

  


“Oh, you do, do you?” John sounds wry. “I dunno if that's true, Sherlock.” He comes over to the sofa and drops himself into it next to Sherlock. “You've never actually told me what it was like for you, you know.”

  


“You've never asked,” Sherlock says.

  


“Well, I'm asking now.”

  


Sherlock knows he owes John this, but there are needles in it: it's hard to explain why he stayed away for so long without touching on his fear, on his realisations about his life. He can't say _I went through torture and in my fever dreams there was you._ He can't say that he had to convince himself he was safe before he could ever come back – that his connections were safe, his job, his position; but also his inner self, tidied away into shelves, never to be dusted. He thought he would be happy to find again what he had left behind; that nothing was as he had left it was a sour pill to swallow, but also the beginning of a process of maturity. Mycroft has told him: _you have changed,_ and Mycroft has seen the scars, the ribs. That's not what he means.

  


“It was... tremendously difficult,” Sherlock says, at last.

  


“You have PTSD,” John says flatly, and then, in response to Sherlock's expression: “Please, like I don't recognise it when I see it. Have you had treatment, Sherlock? Have you talked to _anyone_ at all?”

  


Sherlock sighs, “I know how to control –”

  


“No one knows that, Sherlock, no one. Not even you.” John is sharp. “It doesn't have to be me, but it has to be someone. Mycroft, for all I care. Someone.”

  


“You hated your therapist.”

  


“I never did. I just didn't like going to her, because she did her job.” John studies him, mouth tight. “I still see her.”

  


That is news to Sherlock, and a bit surprising. He gets up, to get away from this conversation. He wipes his hands on his trousers. “I am fine,” he says. It's true enough.

  


John watches him for a long moment. “I'm very glad you're back,” he finally says. “But you're even more confusing than you were before.”

  


Sherlock thinks: _that's how I feel about you, actually._ Out loud he says: “I'm glad I'm back too.”

  


“Will you stay, this time?” John asks.

  


Sherlock says: “Yes,” though he can never be sure, and the days that are to come loom before him like dark spectres. What will he do, once he's on the other side? When there is no more napkin to fold and no more waltz to practise, no pretext to press close to John, to follow the lead of his body? When he has played his piece, and John has dipped his wife? Their homes will be in different places. It's hard to imagine.

  


They are there, for now. The living room is dark: picture it, the clutter shoved aside in favour of dancing, John's shoes toed off at the door. There are takeout boxes on the table with two sets of chopsticks poking out of the pad thai. Sherlock is standing up, John is sitting down in the sofa, hands clasped on his knees. They are looking at each other. Outside, there is thunder, and the music of rainfall on asphalt – but the curtains are drawn, and the outside cannot get in.

  


"Again?" Sherlock says, gesturing at the record player, and John nods.

 

 


End file.
